Billing S. Red Sea Peril, 2002.pdf

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RED SEA PERIL
SHIRLEY BILLING
SHERIDAN HOUSE

First published 2002 in the United States
by Sheridan House Inc.
145 Palisade Street
Dobbs Ferry, New York 10522
www.sheridanhouse.com
■*
Copyright text and illustrations © 1998
by Shirley Billing
First published in Great Britain 1998
by Cruising Association
Quote on pages 218 to 220
From The Price of Honor by Jan Goodwin
Copyright © 1994 by Jan Goodwin. Reprinted
by permission of Little Brown and Company, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the
prior permission in writing of Sheridan House.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Billing, Shirley
Red Sea peril/Shirley Billing,
p. cm.
Includes index.
ISBN 1-57409-137-9 (alk. paper)
1. Billing, Shirley - Journeys. 2. Billing, Peter - Journeys.
3. Billing, Shirley - Captivity, - 1996.
4. Billing, Peter - Captivity, - 1996. 5. Eritrea - Politics
and government, - 1993-. 6. Seafaring life. I. Title.
G540. B355 2001
963.507'2'0922-dc21 2001031099
[B]
Edited by Fred Barter
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 1-57409-137-9

Contents
Foreword by Basil d'Oliveira
Author's Acknowledgements
Description and layout of ketch CLYPEU§
Chapter
1 Andaman Sea and Indian Ocean 12
2 Sri Lanka 20
3 Eleguma Island Maldives 28
4 A1 Mukalla 43
5 Aden 52
6 Perim Lighthouse 63
7 Baraisole Bay - Day 1 75
10 Assab - Day 4 98
11 Assab - Day 5 104
12 Asmara - Day 7 112
25 Homeward Bound - Saturday 13th April 199
26 Saturday 20th April 205
27 Sunday 5th May 215
28 Wednesday 8th May 221
29 Suez Canal 229
30 Israel 235
31 Cyprus 243
Index 251

Dedication
To Peter, my husband and my home.
To our family who generously let us go
and then worked so hard to get us back.
To Brian and Lorraine Raison
of MARA who stood by us.
To Linda and Don Bryce of GREEN DOLPHIN,
Bill and Karen Kneebone of KULAROO
and all the other international yachtsmen
who helped, and cared and sent donations
to the "Save CLYPEUS Fund."
"But if the while we think on thee, dear friends.
All losses are restored and sorrow ends."
Shakespeare sonnet

FOREWORD
Even though my good friends Peter afid Shirley Billing
had always been keen sailors, nevertheless it came as quite
a surprise to everyone when they decided to sell up and
undertake a passage to Australia. It was a brave decision to
make. Little did any of us think they would still be
cruising in 1998.
Peter and Shirley left St Katharine's Dock in March 1983.
Over the subsequent years they have virtually circumnavigated
the world apart from the short 1500 mile sector between
Cyprus and Ibiza to link up with their original outbound
track. They plan to complete this final leg during 1999.
They have completed over 55,000 miles of ocean cruising
which is a considerable achievement in its own right.
They have kept family and friends in touch with their travels
and experiences by sending a regular series of highly
interesting and informative newsletters. You read the letters
over and over again - and waited for the next issue to arrive.
These letters have provided an excellent basis for this book.
One particular quote sticks in my mind - the Billings
definition of "togetherness" is "being seasick simultaneously
over the side holding hands".
When sailing up the Red Sea in 1996 they anchored in the
right place, but at the wrong time. The story of their arrest,
interrogation and transport across the desert to Assab for
further questioning is unusual. However, the ominous flight
to Asmara on one way tickets under false names is the stuff of
fiction and not the normal cruising story.
This book expresses the experiences, frustrations and
enjoyment involved in ocean cruising together with some
astute observations about the many places and peoples
visited.
Basil d'Oliveira
28 August, 1998

Author's Acknowledgements
To the caring international yachtsmen and women
To Rosemary and Noel who alerted BasiL
and took the brunt of media enquiries and kept the whole
family informed, together with Andrea and Rupert, and
Sheila and Tony, who gave supportive back up.
Basil d'Oliveira for his knowledge, understanding
of the situation, and quick response in alerting the
authorities and the media.
Azib, the kindly proprietress of the
Khartoum Hotel, Asmara.
Dr. Rod Hicks, the Honorary British Consul in Asmara.
Monique and Etienne Forget, our French fellow detainees.
Alice and Paul who gave me the time to write
it all down in Wisconsin, USA.
My sisters, Hilary in Australia, who incisively edited out
anything not immediately relevant and Sheila, who has
given me constant encouragement.
Lois and James Barrell for their never ending
welcome to their home.
All those friends who have kept in touch and made it
worthwhile writing the letters and recording our feelings.
Brian and Lorraine Raison of MARA and
Don and Linda Bryce of GREEN DOLPHIN
for some of the photographs used in this book.
Fred Barter and Geoff Doggett who have taken
me under their wings and allowed my book to fly.

35' ketch. A ferro-cement Endurance 35.
CLYPEUS has a conventional interior: from the aft cockpit you step down into the main
dog-house cabin. The wide carpeted step is actually the lid of the small fridge/cooler.
One more step takes you onto the wooden parquet floor under which is the Perkins 4108
diesel engine. On the left, the navigation desk has our radios and GPS (Global
Positioning System) above it. A 6' red velour settee with storage under and a
bookcase behind, reaches to the bulkhead. On the right, is the galley.
A stainless steel sink and draining board are athwart the cockpit bulkhead and a
Neptune calor gas cooker with an oven, adjoins along the side. The fiddled
flap-down table sits to the right off-centre in front of another short settee,
with a full sized pilot berth behind it.
Forward to port, is a hanging locker and wardrobe, opposite the bathroom which
has a washbasin, toilet and shower. Further forward is the main bedroom cabin with a
high double bed over lockers, and on the port side a small settee, dressing table and
hanging locker. A door leads to a 'V' berth forward cabin, now piled high with stores,
books, some of my shell collection, spare sails and paper files. The anchor chain rests
in the forepeak.
(Clypeus is a Greek entomological term for part of the hard carapace of an insect).

CHAPTER ONE 08°34'N Lat 97°33'E Long
Andaman Sea and Indian Ocean
I
CLYPEUS, our
35' ketch.
A ferro-cement
Endurance 35.
Peter said
"What are we
rushing back
to Europe for?"
Lorraine and Brian Raison
f we had carried on westwards
with our Australian friends and not
decided to spend a further year in
Thailand and Malaysia, we would have
missed one the most worrying, and
possibly the most exciting, periods of
our sailing life. As it was, the Eritrean
Government, apart from locking us up
in different places, flew us the length of
their country, and showed us their
capital city, all for free.
In 1995 we had sailed to Phuket from
Singapore in company with MITHRA,
SUNSHINE and SAOIRSE (pronounced
Seersha), a fun-loving trio of yacht
couples all from Fremantle Sailing Club. We had hoped to
buddy boat with them through to the Mediterranean, keeping a
safety net of regular radio schedules.
After a hectic Christmas and New Year party season, we
four yachts started out to cross the Indian Ocean together. Sixty
miles out of Phuket we all stopped in the Semilan Islands for a
rest day. Indecisively, Peter and I sat on the dazzling white
sand beach gazing at CLYPEUS, our 35'
ketch, nodding in the turquoise sea.
Nuzzling our toes in the hot sand,
Peter said "What are we rushing back to
Europe for?"
"I don’t know. To see the family I
guess."
"Well, living will never be as cheap
and easy as it has been sailing in Asia. I
don't trust that cracked chain plate I
found yesterday.
12 • Red Sea Peril

Let's go back, do more maintenance, explore more thoroughly,
and cross the Indian Ocean next year.
"Yup, I'd like that. I could go to Oz and give Hilary anoth-
er break. But what about our buddy boats?"
"They'll understand."
There and then we decided that neither we, nor our boat,
were ready to embark on the hazards and dangers of the long
voyage home to England.
Our friends did understand and promised to keep in touch
by radio as long as they could. They would write and let us
know about their experiences up the Red Sea. It was a sad
goodbye; they had
been such fun.
The extra year in
Asia flew by. We
explored fabulous
Phang Nga Bay more
thoroughly, re-
visited Langkawi,
Penang and Pangkor.
We anchored for four
months up the Ding-
Dings River in
Malaysia. Peter
replaced some chain
plates and worked
on CLYPEUS'S hull. I flew down to Perth and cared for my
bedridden father while my widowed sister Hilary went sailing
on the three masted barquentine LEEUWIN.
In December we once again prepared to leave for Europe.
We anchored
for four months
up the Ding-
Dings River.
January 11th 1996, Phuket, Thailand.
"Ready?" Peter asked, looking searchingly into my eyes.
"Well, yes. Let's go, go, go. There's enough food and drink
on board to last us a month, and, as you say, it should only take
ten days to Sri Lanka."
"Coffee first?" asked my procrastinating captain (assuming
I have the title of admiral) - it takes us a bit of psyching-up to
let go of land.
"No, let's get going. Otherwise MARA and KULAROO will be
ahead of us all the time." This year's plan was to sail to Cyprus
in the Mediterranean, keeping in radio contact with MARA and
KULAROO, both cruising catamarans from Australia. Our ferro-
cement Endurance 35 is no racing machine. We have to work
hard to keep up with our larger, faster, friends.
Red Sea Peril • 13

"Right." Peter
said. "I'll start
the motor. You
pull down the
Blue Peter".
"Right.” Peter said. "I'll start the
motor. You pull down the Blue
Peter".
As I pulled down the signal for
imminent departure, I remembered
last night's happy farewell party
under the palm trees when Bob of
LAZYBONES had recited "The man
from Ironbark" and Patrick and
Carolyn of COCKAIGNE had
rendered a special
"King of the Road".
Brian Raison
"Peter and Shirley awoke and the sun did shine,
Picked up the anchor and stowed all the line
Sailed 1,000 miles to a Sri Lankan Bay
And Shirley said "It's been a lovely day."
You sail a thousand miles and what do you get?
Another day older and deeper in debt
St. Neptune don't you call them
'Cos they can't go - They got to sail
Old Clypeus to a Cypriot shore."
Parting is so difficult. Will we ever see them again?
MITHRA, SUNSHINE and SAIORSE had kept us informed of
their travels and the visits they had made up the Red Sea to
Massawa in Eritrea, where they had been invited to a local wed-
ding; to Suakin in Sudan; to Safaga in Egypt, from where they
visited the Pyramids. The Red Sea hadn't been as daunting as
anticipated; as long as you sailed early in the day and anchored
before the strong northerlies commenced in the afternoon.
"No hurry, no worries," they said.
Peter slipped the yellow mooring buoy while I slowly
motored forward sounding the fog horn to acknowledge the
cheers of "Bon Voyage" and "See you" from neighbouring yachts.
We were off, excited to be on our way over 1,000 miles across
the Indian Ocean to Sri Lanka, but sorry to leave good friends
and a delightful country.
We both felt seasick in spite of it being a fairly calm sunny
day. Cream crackers and water were all we could stomach.

The white skyscrapers of Patong shimmered amongst green
and grey hills and gradually faded away
By 11am Peter had set the sails as he hoped they would be
for the next ten days - full main and boomed out yankee. In the
afternoon he hoisted the staysail as well. Then the sea became
smooth and the wind disappeared. We watched frigate birds
diving into the water and a few tidy white terns fluttered across
the surface. Motoring all the way to Sri Lanka wasn't viable but
we justified running the engine for a couple of hours to top up
the batteries. The Perkins diesel engine performed steadily as it
has done ever since Peter installed it in 1983.
CLYPEUS, our voyaging home, is a cutter-rigged ketch (two
foresails, two masts) built in England in 1975 by Norman
Bagshaw in Fareham. He had built her to sail around the world
with his family, but by the time she was finished, his family had
grown and gone. We had bought her in 1982 and now our sea-
kindly, but overweight, home was over twenty years old. With
three cabins she is an ideal cosy home in Northern Europe but
not a cool boat for the tropics, as not enough wind can blow
through her.
At 11pm Peter woke me. "Dolphins."
"Great!" I scrambled out of my bunk and up into the cockpit
and could see their tubes of phosphorescence tunnelling,
swooping and circling alongside. Suddenly they would sparkle
up through the velvet blackness to snort and blow a fountain of
stars. Cylinders of light swept to the surface exploding in a
bouquet of shining phosphorescence.
Later on, during my three hour watch, we passed through
our third patch of "poppling" water. It is always worrying when
the sea pattern changes. Here the little wavelets couldn't decide
which way to go and just slopped against each other continually
colliding and bouncing away. A rainstorm calmed the sea down
but it was still sloppy. Other boats had radioed back that they
had experienced very rough seas around here 07°31N. 96°38E.
We gradually left behind the popply sea and squid fishing boats
glowing in the dark.
Each morning at 8.30 am on 4417kHz, all the yachts with
radios crossing the Indian Ocean checked in and gave their
positions and any news. This marine mobile net was hosted at
first by Casey on SWEET SURRENDER until they anchored in Galle,
then Maggie of WIRRAWAY kept control of the radio waves. It
was pleasant to have a friendly greeting each morning and find
out our position in relation to the other yachts. We also kept a
7.30am, noon, 6pm, and midnight schedule with MARA and
KULAROO on VHF if within range, or 4417kHz if more than 20
miles separated us.
For dinner on our second day out we had roast pork and

roast potatoes, onions, carrots and green beans. We were
obviously feeling better in spite of the boat rolling and the
mainsail slamming when the light breeze died away. We let
the main crash and bang for a few hours, then took it down,
relaxed and waited for the wind. Gradually the breeze fresh-
ened and with a three-quarter moon behipd us we could see
both The Plough and The Southern Cross bright in the sky at
the same time.
The wind stayed light but the sea became very disturbed.
Next day's dinner was chicken cordon bleu in spite of the
crazy rolling which didn't affect our appetites now. At sea,
meals become the highlight of our day and a small cocktail
beforehand made each evening a social occasion. We had
made a pact before embarking on our voyage that this 3 hour
watch would be our happy hour. All disputes forgotten, even
if we reverted to not speaking again later.
We have never had to call our pact, not because we
haven't quarrelled but because we both realise tolerance is
essential when there is no respite from each other.
By the fourth night we had travelled 318 miles. Our
thoughts were filled with the task of the finding the Sombrero
Channel, which was less than a mile wide, through the unlit
Nicobar Islands. CLYPEUS was speeding, at 6 knots, plus 2
knots of current, in the inky dark, towards our GPS waypoint
at the entrance to the dreaded Channel.
"I wish we could have arrived here in daylight." I
groaned, scared stiff, not being able to seeing anything, and
having to just trust our planning, the GPS (Global Positioning
System) and the compass.
The full mainsail was up and the yankee boomed out.
Phosphorescent foam tumbled away from our hull as we
rolled, rattled and swished through the water. Around us the
wavetops were breaking shining white. Cascading foam ran
down the face of the hills of water. We both sat in the cockpit,
ready for any emergency. Peter finds it easy to rely on elec-
tronics and was reasonably relaxed -1 would much rather see
where we were going.
The GPS bleep told us it was time to change course. Peter
went below and called out: "Change to 240°."
I undid the Aries self steering and stood holding the
wheel peering into the dark distance and listened for waves
crashing on rocks.
How can you just sit down there so confidently marking
our position on the chart?" I called out. "Don't you want to
come and make sure all is well?"
"Nope. All is well. Just keep on course."
Half a terrifying hour, for me, passed. Not a light or a

darkening of the horizon showed the islands. Then he called
out again "OK. We're through, change to 265° and I'll come
and reset the Aries wind vane." Placidly he came up and took
over. I went below, made us both a mug of Milo and
collapsed into my bunk.
Three hours later I took over again and we carried on
across the Indian Ocean averaging between 120 and 140 miles
a day. I felt 'thick, thick, thick' as Violet Elizabeth used to say
in 'Just William'. I noted 'Everyone else on the radio is very
'stiff upper lip' saying what a great passage we're having. We
are - it's fast and safe but such unpredictable rolling in the
cross swell. The sea isn't all going in the same direction and
every so often suddenly tips the boat on its side - either way,
you can't anticipate. So tummies are uptight and rigid.
Our thoughts
were filled with
the task of
finding the
less than a
mile wide
Sombrero
Channel
through the
unlit Nicobar
Islands.
CLYPEUS was
speeding, at
6 knots plus
2 knots of
current, in the
inky dark,
towards our
GPS waypoint
at the entrance
to the dreaded
Channel.

By January
17th I had
come to the
conclusion that
the Indian
Ocean is an
untidy,
undisciplined,
sea even on
balmy days.
awaiting the next lurch and drop.'
MARAKI reported that while sailing at four-and-a-half
knots they hit a sleeping whale. Their bow slid 18" up its back
and cut it, sadly leaving a pool of blood behind. Other sperm
whales, in the pod of about ten, gathered around it as MARAKI
sailed on. They felt terribly guilty, but didn't know what they
could do to help.
I felt queasy so lay on my bed and listened to music
tapes and finished recording stories and songs for my grand-
children. How I miss them. I wonder what they are doing?
By January 17th I had come to the conclusion that the
Indian Ocean is an untidy, undisciplined, sea even on balmy
days. Yes, we were having a wonderful sail as far as a warm
wind under sunny skies; but the short swell and cross waves
made it an uncomfortable ride. I wrote in my journal: CLYPEUS
trembles like an excited puppy before she hurls herself
forward down the next wave, then what a jarring and jerking
as she is stopped short by ploughing into the next one.

Curling crests slap her from all sides. As she lurches so the
main boom crashes against the rigging and twangs the
shrouds and our nerves. The gunshot bang of a cross rogue
wave suddenly lifts one side and drops her into a hole
causing us to hang on and lift our mugs to keep the contents
inside. It has to be endured to the end - like having a baby -
you can't say "thank you, I have had enough now."'
The next day the sea motion was much better. The waves
were still 1-2 metres but mostly going in the same direction.
We had a lovely day, comfortable, easy, with relaxed tummies.
I enjoyed reading "Ultimate Prizes" by Susan Howitch.
Another lovely day followed and in the afternoon the coast
of Sri Lanka was in sight.
The next day
the sea motion
was much
better. The
waves were
still 1-2 metres
but mostly
going in the
same direction.
MB
1

CHAPTER TWO
Sri Lanka 05°50'N Lat 80°22'E Long
Ne dropped
the Bruce bow
anchor and
took a stern
line to the
buoy.
On our ninth day out from Phuket we sailed along the
south coast of Sri Lanka. It looked like a beautiful
island with yellow sand beaches, palm trees and dis-
tant mountains. An aromatic smell of tobacco drifted out
across the water. Some fishing boats changed course towards
us and we worried. Were they Tamil Tigers wanting money,
arms or just cigarettes? Were
they pirates? However the
fishermen only waved and
went on. MARA and
KULAROO were now closing in
behind us. Dondra Light
was a good mark all night
and we entered Galle
Harbour just after dawn. We
had made 1030 miles in ten
days having a good 1-2 knot
current with us most of the
time. Our best day's run was 140 miles.
We dropped the Bruce bow anchor and took a stern line
to the buoy in the centre of a circle of yachts. Amongst
friends, we chatted on the VHF and were told to call Don
Windsor Agency on Channel 69, who requested we wait on
board for the Harbour Master. He arrived at 9.30, a pleasant
substantial 35 year old Indian. We gave him a beer and he
asked for a ’souvenir’. A packet of Benson & Hedges Gold
satisfied him. I gave a packet to the crewmen holding the
launch too.
With our ship's papers we rowed ashore through clean
clear water. Don Windsor's office was nearby and was a
pleasant rendezvous. Yachts' people sat sipping cold beer on
the verandah. I read our mail while Peter filled in forms. An
agent took us to Immigration, Customs and Police. They were
all friendly and welcoming especially now we no longer carry
guns. They had seemed a sensible precaution but had proved
more trouble than they were worth. They had been left with
the police in Singapore.

On the road from the harbour, visitors were accosted by
a number of young men offering services: laundry, tours, and
stores. Marlin seemed an honest cheerful young man who
assured us he could fix anything we wanted. His long curls
made him look like a cavalier - D'Artagnan could be just
around the corner! He invited us to his house for fresh
mango juice, information and fruit and vegetable price lists.
Excusing ourselves, we then walked to Mike's Yacht Services,
the most highly recommended of the agents, and compared
prices and values.
On our return to the harbour via Don Windsor's a BBQ
party with a band was in full swing. We chatted with other
voyagers, swapped yarns and enjoyed the steak, sausages and
fresh bread. However, we were really tired and excused our-
selves, looking forward to an early night and a good sleep.
Suddenly, from a deep sleep, we were awakened by a
loud BANG! which reverberated through the hull. We
jumped up and went on deck. It occurred again and again
every three or four hours throughout the night, in fact during
our whole stay in Galle Harbour. We had been warned that
the Sri Lankan Navy was dynamiting indiscriminately during
darkness, but we hadn't expected it to be this loud or so
worrying. Would the vibration frequency be exactly correct to
make our concrete hull disintegrate? Peter assured me it
wouldn't.
Two naval ships were anchored in the harbour, protected
by netting to keep Tamil terrorist scuba divers away. Tne
navy were taking the extra precaution of exploding charges to
burst the eardrums of any divers who might be underwater.
When we awoke, silent fishermen in dug-out canoes
alongside us were pulling in their nets. They weaved their
primitive outriggers between the anchored yachts with never
a word or sound. They smiled and waved when approached, ,
but never intruded.
After taking our
laundry to Marlin's
home as arranged,
he drove us into
town and famil-
iarised us with the
old walled city of
Galle.
Then he took us
into the modern
town, to the Craft
Factory where lace,
leather and batik
When we
awoke, silent
fishermen in
dug-out
canoes along-
side us were
pulling in their
nets.

The Craft
Factory where
lace, leather
and batik
workers
showed their
skills.
workers showed their skills. The
most interesting craft was the
making of gold rings. After melt-
ing the gold in tiny crucibles it
was poured into moulds carved
into cuttlefish bones. We were
then left to explore on our own;
we hoped, but we just could not
get rid of the touts who wasted
our time offering to take us to
places we didn't want to go. We
gave in and walked for miles to
find we were back at the factory
we had already visited. The
important church, we were
assured MUST be seen, was
locked when we arrived. Finally at
the Post Office in the old walled
town we firmly told our guides to
please go away. We wanted to
find our own way around.
Galle is a lovely little city of
narrow streets. Some of the small houses were fronted with
Doric columns. There were many Dutch style homes and a
large white Catholic church. We walked right around the city
wall stopping to sit on the grass below the lighthouse, to look
on the beach for shells, and just view the peaceful scene.
Once again the sellers of lace, semi-precious stones and coins
just wouldn't leave us alone. We eventually became really
annoyed and left. The sellers are so persistent. They just will
not take "no thank you" for an answer. Having visited India
previously, we decided then that we would not sail to Cochin
after all. We just couldn't face India again and have the never-
ending task of saying 'NO'. On a small boat you just don't
have the space to take a souvenir from everywhere you land,
even if you like what is being offered.
In the evening we joined Karen and Bill of KULAROO for
dinner at the Closenberg Hotel on the headland. It was a
charming old colonial hotel in a delightful setting. The cool
ambiance was enhanced with much old wood and coral
waterfall decorations. The sea lapped the rocks below the
sweet scented frangipani trees, and we were left to order our
meal quietly and with no hassle. Late, on the way home,
allowing for the time difference, we called in at Don
Windsor s to telephone our family to let them know we had
arrived safe and sound. They were all well and happy.
With Brian and Lorraine of MARA and Karen and Bill of

KULAROO we booked a five day tour around Sri Lanka with
Marlin. He invited us to his home so that his wife and
mother-in-law could give us a cookery lesson. Asoka,
Marlin's wife, and Karoona, his mother, showed us how to
cook dahl, deviled potato, string houpas, fish emoutielle (clay
pot fish and coconut curry with tamarind), kancun (curried
vine-leaves) and poppadums. There was no kitchen table, the
maid crouched on her haunches and prepared the vegetables
on a piece of sacking on the floor. They seemed a happy
Hindu family with two children, a boy of five and a baby.
Marlin told us that his mother still lived in the 300 year old
Portuguese house his family had owned since it was built.
We learnt a few words Hello - aiwa, G'day - stootsi.
Next day, in a Toyota minibus, we started our tour of the
2,500 year old rich cultural heritage of Sri Lanka. Our driver
Fiat, was a slim, small, fifty-year-old Sri
Lankan with reasonable English. He was
an excellent, steady, driver and in the
whole time, even on the tortuous mountain
roads, we never had the slightest worry.
Fiat set off to the east and our first stop
was to see the stilt fishermen at Weligama.
They perch on poles out in the surf, fishing
with a rod and line. We felt duty bound to
buy little handmade lace doilies from their
wives as we took photographs. Fiat took us
to a tourist restaurant, but it wasn't what
we wanted.
There was no
kitchen table,
the maid
crouched on
her haunches
and prepared
the vegetables
on a piece of
sacking on the
floor.
Lorraine and Brian Raison
Our first stop
was to see the
stilt fishermen
at Weligama.
They perch
on poles out
in the surf,
fishing with a
rod and line.

The next stop
was outside a
wayside shack
offering
buffalo curd
with palm
syrup.
We wanted to eat
where Sri Lankans
ate and do our best
to enjoy local food.
He took us at
our word and the
next stop was out-
side a wayside
shack offering buf-
falo curd with palm
syrup. Lorraine,
Brian and I thought it delicious, but Karen, Bill and Peter
weren't prepared to try. The buffalo curd came in hand-
thrown terra cotta bowls and the palm honey is collected at a
great height from the resin at the top of palm trees. Parallel
lines are strung across from top to top of the palm trees and
the men walk along the lower rope, one hand holding the top
line. Resin is gathered and boiled like maple syrup. The
dessert tasted like yogurt with honey. An hour later we
stopped for lunch at an ethnic restaurant and all had curry
and rice.
We walked
around the
plantation and
garden and
picked runner
beans to be
cooked for our
dinner.
Our vehicle climbed up through verdant and colourful
hill country to Ella Waterfall and on to Banderella. Sri Lanka
seemed a lush and fertile Garden of Eden. Up in the tea
country we stayed on a tea estate at the Himalie Guest House.
Although the air was cool a pink mosquito net cascaded
down above our bed. It seemed very romantic.
We walked around the plantation and garden and picked
runner beans to be cooked for our dinner. After beers and a
gossip we showered in cool (but meant to be hot) water and
looked forward to our meal. The Kandy rice, brinjam (egg-
plant) curried runner beans and curried chicken were good
and plentiful. We decided then to warn any of our friends
contemplating a visit to Sri Lanka, not to bother if they didn't
like curry.
We were all up by six the
next morning to see the
sun rise over the moun-
tain tops tipping them
with a rosy glow and
pinking the puffs of mist
rising from the valleys.
Frequently we
stopped and investigated
ancient temples and reli-
gious cave sites on our

winding way up to Horton Plains. Tigers and deer still roam
this area. We were hoping to look over the cliff edge at
World's End, down into the abyss below, but the entrance fee
to this natural site was 650 rupees ie. $US12. We decided it
was a 'rip off' and it made us realise that soon many of the
world's natural wonders will only be available to rich tourists.
I spoke pleasantly to the National Park Warden and explained
our point of view.
We decided to go for a walk on the plateau and then have
lunch served in a clean, bright restaurant in the Government
Guest House. However, when the bill was presented, it was
far in excess of the meals ordered. Karen carries her pocket
calculator and went through the account charmingly with the
waiter.
"My goodness yes, it is 800 rupees
too much." he said waggling his head.
"So many little mistakes. We are very,
very sorry, please accept our sincere
apologies!"
We did not leave a tip.
After visiting the famous
Newara Eliya tea plantation and
factory we drove on to Kandy, the
capital. The beautiful flower-filled
capital city surrounding a serene lake
has had a fascination for many years.
In my school library in London,
I had seen pictures of the
Kandy Dancers in a National
Geographic Magazine and was
looking forward to seeing them. We
found the Freedom Guest House that had
three bed and breakfast vacancies, signed
in, then hurried to book seats for the
evening performance.
The dancing lived up to my expecta-
tions. It was splendid and vigorous
in colourful costumes. The men were
supreme in athletic ability and
endurance. The whirling dervish
dancing was exciting although I
have no idea of the religious
significance. Back at the
Freedom Guest House
with KULAROO and MARA
we tossed a coin for
the 'bridal suite'.
d
In my school
library In
London,
I had seen
pictures of
the Kandy
Dancers
in a National
Geographic
Magazine and
was looking
forward to
seeing them.

How little I
knew of the
history of
these sophisti-
cated ruins
and temples
and regarded
the
Bhuddvistas
carved from
the standing
rocks, with
awe.
We won and carried our cases upstairs to an en suite hot
shower and a good bed.
Another early start and an enjoyable morning was spent
at a spice farm where we were shown many different spices
growing and their uses explained. On to Polonnaruwa, the
twelfth century capital of Ceylon. How little I knew of the
history of these sophisticated ruins and temples and regarded
with awe the Bhuddvistas carved from the standing rocks.
There is nothing like travel to make me humble at my igno-
rance. We were advised not to go any further north to
Trincomalee or the northern capital, because the Tamil
terrorists were in control of some of the area.
Wild elephants and monkeys crossed the road in the sun-
set as we made our way to Dambuwella and booked into the
Hotel Katapath Paura Dambulla, (the names were all so long
and confusing). After dinner (the first meal which wasn't all
curries), the waiter offered to take us to the cinema across the
road. We were allowed to peep in and watch the last ten
action-packed minutes of an Indian film during which a
helicopter and a train crashed, nuns rescued women and
children from a blazing inferno, and a girl who was chained
to the railway track was snatched from beneath the grinding
wheels by the swashbuckling hero. Hurrah!!
It was a 5.30am start to drive to the rock fortress of Sigirya
- the Sri Lankan version of Ayers Rock in Australia. A 1,000
foot red rock stands proud in the centre of a vast plain with
ancient castle ruins and the shell of
an Olympic sized swimming pool at
the top. Spread out below are the gar-
dens of the old king's winter palace.
The Dambulla Caves, where a
reclining Buddha has lain and been
worshipped since the first century
BC, had a roof and wall paintings
that were still colourful. The later
Buddhas, stupas, bodegas and murals
all had such involved and interesting
histories, that I came away unable to
remember much at all. Though I do
remember watching papyrus being
made and then having my name
drawn on it in hieroglyphics with a
stylus.
Back at the Freedom Guest
House in Kandy, Lorraine and Brian
won the bridal suite and we all left
our bags there so that we could see

the museum before it closed. As we talked back across the
grounds of the Temple of the Tooth a young man introduced
himself and took us to meet the abbot of the Temple. He
blessed us - for a price! When Peter proffered an English Five
Pound note, the abbott said "Is that all?"
Over supper we all decided we w^re ready to return to
our boats via the Elephant Orphanage. When we arrived in
the morning it seemed a sad place after the loving way we
had seen Thai elephants treated. The Sri Lankan keepers
didn't seem to touch the babies, who swayed from side to
side, as though distressed, while waiting for their feeding
bottles. Watching the large herd bathing in the river was
unforgettable; they obviously enjoyed it so much, trumpeting
water over themselves and their friends.
We all felt 'templed and curried out' and
went straight back to Galle instead of going to
Colombo. We didn't realise it was a wise
decision, but the following day was when the
devastating bomb went off in the bank at
Colombo and 200 people were killed.
We could easily have been in the vicinity.
Back on board, those eggs and bacon tasted
so good. A gentle drizzle cooled the decks. We
were so pleased to be home even when woken by
underwater explosions.
The next few days in the harbour were spent
sending mail and preparing for the next 1300 mile
leg to Port Raysut in Oman. We enjoyed an
evening of "Boggle" contest on LAZYBONES who
had arrived from Thailand while we had been
away. Rivalry at Boggle had been high all season and many a
dastardly duel had taken place over Australian dictionary
spellings. Bob had been king, but tonight the series was
called a draw when, at last, Peter won.
The 'last night in port' celebration was a 'bangers and
mash' (sausages and potatoes) supper on CLYPEUS.
Next day MARA, KULAROO, CLYPEUS and GREEN DOLPHIN
with Linda and Don on board, all left with promises to keep
regular radio schedules during our voyage to Oman.
The Sri
Lankan
keepers didn't
seem to touch
the babies,
who swayed
from side to
side, as
though
distressed,
while waiting
for their
feeding
bottles.
Red Sea Peril * 27

CHAPTER THREE
07°04'N Lat 72°55'E Long
Eleguma Island Maldives
Eleguma
Island
Maldives.
The longest ocean leg of our homeward voyage started
on Sunday February 4th when we sailed out of Galle
Harbour into rough seas. We would have liked to turn
back into the calm harbour, but the wind was from the SSE
speeding us towards Oman, the Red Sea, and home - no
complaints. On a broad reach, we headed towards the most
northerly of the Maldivian atolls only 420 miles away. We
hoped we would be allowed to anchor for a few days and see
these pristine islands which may disappear if the sea rises just
a few feet due to global warming. There is no official port of
entry amongst the northerly islands, but yachts ahead had
been allowed to stop for a few days if they had a reasonable
reason.
On my watches, between making sure the Aries self
steering was keeping us on course, looking for ships or half-
sunk containers, and marking our position on the chart, I sat
in the cockpit doodling some rhymes:
Eleguma
Isiand

"Whistling wind, surging foam, t
Still 6,000 miles to sail to home.
Slip-sliding down a watery hill
That wall of water could easily kill.
Wind-torn waves of sinister blue ✓
Batter our boat and cowering crew.
Maldives ahead, only a few years more.
Before global warming swallows their shore
There palm trees bend, blue water plays
A respite earned before further days of chaos.
Encouraging voices on the radio sked
"We've just survived", "she's baked their bread."
Blue water cruisers do have more than a tinge
Of what most would call "The Lunatic Fringe."
On the third day I was still feeling seasick and slept on
and off most of the day but it was worth it as we were making
6-7 knots on the lumpy sea. A cross swell bumped its way
over the basic NE swell. Peter put a second reef in the main.
He spoke on the VHF to a large tanker on a reciprocal course
only two miles away.
"No." He hadn't seen us!
The estimated wind speed was now 30 knots. Two more
merchant ships appeared up ahead on a parallel course with us.
One to the south and one to the north: no problem.
At mid-day on the 6th the wind eased. Peter let out the
reef and poled out the jib, wing and wing. As the wind died so
CLYPEUS rolled, each side deck being awash alternately.
As I marked the chart and wrote up the log, I noticed it was the
7th of February: our grand-daughter Emily's seventh birthday.
I wonder what sort of party she will have this year?
Gradually the sea became calmer and the sailing good. We
dried out a bit and discussed what our reason for stopping at
Eleguma Island would be. Peter
had an upset tummy so we
decided a consultation with
Dr. Don Bryce on GREEN
DOLPHIN was necessary - on
the radio, an appointment was
made. Minor sail repairs were
needed too.
At 6 am, it was only 67
miles to Eleguma Island in
Ihavandiffulu Atoll. We could
get there in daylight if we got
Gradually the
sea became
calmer and the
sailing good.

An elegantly
shaped local
boat with a
high bow.
moving but we would have to motor. The engine wouldn't
start and we ghosted along under sail for ten hours. Peter
investigated every possibility and in the end decided that the
following sea must have pushed water back up the exhaust
pipe. It eventually started after he disconnected the exhaust
pipe, started the motor, then pushed the exhaust pipe back on.
We approached the atoll just as the sun was setting
behind a heavy cloud hovering over the island. I was afraid
we wouldn't be able to find our way into the lagoon and
would have to stay out at sea for another night. However, on
the radio, Linda on GREEN DOLPHIN assured us it was a wide
clear entrance and they would talk us safely in. They did.
DE LA MER put all her lights on too and we anchored nearby
in 60' on sand.
We sat in the peaceful cockpit and had a wee dram as the
smell of blossom drifted across the water from the island. As
we sat blissfully enjoying the stars and blessed peace, I
thought of Masefield's line: "A quiet sleep and a sweet dream
when the long trick is over." KULAROO sailed in, crossing the
silver pathway from the moon. There are few pleasures in life
as wonderful as sailing and there is nothing as pleasurable as
when you stop!
In the morning, Don told us we could not go ashore until
the 'Judge' and village Chief came out in their launch. Peter
was studying the weather fax charts from Diego Garcia,
Darwin, Rome, Cairo and Peking. I was sitting on deck
sewing the numbers back on the sail when he called up to let
me know "It is raining not in central China." We have Tony
Hancock's classic comedy radio show tape on board of 'The
Radio Ham', where, lost for conversation ideas, he repeats his
Japanese contact's remark that "it is raining not in Tokyo."
It was so hot. I couldn't wait to snorkel. The coral looked
so inviting I slipped over the side into the fantastically clear

water to explore. It was the most beautiful yet, complete and
unspoiled. Yellow and black striped angel fish, smiling blue
and black trigger fish, brown doctor and surgeon fish swiv-
elled their eyes to watch me. A type of trumpet fish I had
never seen before and little glistening guppies took no notice
of me, nor did the garfish just under the shining surface.
Unfortunately, before I could get back on board, an ele-
gantly shaped local boat with a high bow post and matching
lower stern post, came alongside CLYPEUS. The Maldives are
strictly Muslim and I knew I would offend if I appeared in a
bathing costume so I stayed in the water, keeping my shoul-
ders under and clinging to the stern ladder. The seaman hold-
ing the launch spoke quite good English. His name was
Hassan and he had been to England. Like many Maldivians
he had been a merchant seaman for seven years and had visit-
ed Liverpool, New York, Rotterdam, Greece and Italy. His
wife's name was Safiga and he had two children. He invited
us to his home.
The Judge and Chief spent half an hour on board examin-
ing our papers and accepted Peter's reason of ’sail repairs' as
a legitimate reason for stopping. They left assuring us they
would tell us when we would be allowed ashore.
We didn't have our VHF switched on, Peter was saving
battery power and I didn't hear the other boats calling me:
"Come over, come now Shirley, we are swimming with
huge manta rays."
Evidently the rays let them swim alongside them and were
benign. The pod was of about six very large triangular fish with
a ten foot wing span. I had swum with manta rays in Bora Bora
and the Galapagos and just loved to
watch their wing tips undulating as
though gracefully flying through
the water in slow motion. The next
day I saw them in the distance and
immediately tried to join them, but
by the time I had donned mask and
fins and swam to where I thought
they were, I couldn't find them.
Small boys visited the yachts in
little canoes and a plastic air-filled
boat, given to them by a yachtsman,
and gave us coconuts and papaya.
We gave back apples and biscuits,
pencils and balloons. MARA, INERTIA
and WIRRAWAY arrived.
Small boys
visited the
yachts in little
canoes and a
plastic air-filled
boat, given to
them by a
yachtsman,
and gave us
coconuts and
papaya.

The babies
had their slight
little eyebrows
heavily coated
with black
kohl.
The ten yachts "resting" tried to organise a BBQ but the Chief
would not give permission for us to land on the beach this
day, perhaps tomorrow. After dinner Peter and I put on
favourite audio tapes and waltzed and quick-stepped around
our tiny cabin. In the cockpit the sky was clear, almost a full
moon shone down on us sitting in our sajongs. A warm
breeze gently wafted the scent of blossom across the lagoon.
The next morning was spent snorkelling, the water and
air temperature were exactly right -1 didn't even think of feel-
ing cold. The hull didn't need any work - it was all play.
Some boys brought over a few lambis shells and we went for
afternoon tea on DOUBLE 'M' from Hull, England.
In the evening permission to land was granted, on a beach
away from the village. Six boats joined together for a pot-luck
supper on the sandy edge of the calm lagoon. After we had
talked and eaten our fill, we laid on our backs on the sand
and identified stars. It was a dark, dark, night until the moon
came up. This was how I remembered our years exploring the
South Pacific.
The next morning, boys brought us fish, and more papaya
and coconuts. We gave them pencils, a set of dominoes and,
the older ones some plastic safety-razors. They were thrilled.
The manta rays came back but I didn't manage to get near
them.
We were told we could go ashore and, dressed suitably
with our elbows, knees and hair covered, Brian ferried
Lorraine, Maggie of WIRRAWAY and me ashore. Peter didn't
want to visit.
Never have I seen such a clean and tidy village. Freshly
swept white sand streets were lined with cream coral-block
walls. Each wooden thatched house had a tidy fenced yard
with wood and copra-string netting chairs in the shade of
mango or palm trees. Piles of
coconut husks were tidily stacked
for cooking fuel.
The public buildings consisted of
a fish store, where tuna was stored
frozen, until taken to the resort
hotels on southern islands, a small
concrete shed had 'CLINIC' and the
opening times pasted to the door,
also a school house and two
mosques - a separate one for the
ladies.
Hassan met us and invited us to
his house for refreshment. His wife
Safiga shyly offered us Tang orange

juice and insisted we sat down.
There were no chairs, but a raised
wooden platform a foot high,
covered in pillows. This was the
family bed at night, and all other
furniture during the day. We learnt
hello - a salaam ale, thank you -
sikurea, goodbye - dani. The Maldives
have been so isolated that their lan-
guage and writing is completely
unique for a population of around
20,000 people. Grinning children
crowded round and peered in
through the windows. The babies
had their slight little eyebrows
heavily coated with black kohl. I
wasn't able to find the reason, but it
made them look like little old men.
Safiga's parents, who lived next door, were introduced.
They were a handsome couple in their 50s who seemed active,
well and happy. We were also shown into a front room which
had a box shrouded in a white cloth in the corner. Hassan let
us peep underneath - a multi-system 21" TV! He had brought
it back from his sea travels. They could only watch videos at
the moment but were hoping for satellite TV sometime.
We sat in the shade in the main meeting area on wood
and copra-string latticed chairs arranged in a square around a
central arena. The children crowded around and tried to
teach us Maldivian and wrote their names. The girls were
very shy but the boys chatty. A nine year old proudly showed
us how he could turn on and off a small bulb he had wired to
a battery. Twelve year old Mohamad Samer who had some
English wrote the
alphabet and two little
girls called Nasheeda
and Agulima translat-
ed names of things we
could point to:
coconut - kaashi,
banana - donkio,
breadfruit - bambookio.
A chicken - kookoolu -
what a lovely sound-
ing word - we should
all use it!
On the way back
to MARA a fisherman Lorrame and Bfjan Rajson
A nine year
old proudly
showed us
how he could
turn on and off
a small bulb he
had wired to a
battery.
The children
crowded
around and
tried to teach
us Maldivian.

Under protest,
Peter flew our
green and
yellow striped
spinnaker.
in a dugout canoe held up a freshly caught sweetlip fish,
offering it for sale. I had some dollar bills in my pocket
expecting to buy some fruit or vegetables, but there had been
no shop open on the island.
I offered two dollars for this splendid fish. He held up his
hand gesturing too much, too much, so I gave him one dollar
and he gave me two fish.
I felt so privileged to have visited and shared for just a
few hours the simple life-style of Eleguma Island, a happy,
clean, well-ordered community. Even though the girls (and
ladies) were retiring and shy, they seemed happy and well
looked after by their menfolk. No alcohol must lead to fewer
domestic problems. There was much to think about over the
next fifteen days as we sailed the 1300 miles to Salalah in
Oman.
Before we sailed on Sunday February 11th I baked bread
and set more mung bean seeds to sprout to supplement our
potatoes, onions, pumpkins, rice, pasta and canned goods.
Peter checked the batteries and topped up the gearbox oil.
Later as we coped with sailing and navigating, both of us felt
queasy. At around 8° 4T and 69° 44' we sighted five merchant
vessels; a good lookout was necessary. The ships were sailing
from the Red Sea to India through the Eight Degree Channel
that passes through the Maidive Group.
Dolphins leapt before the bow to wish us a Happy
Valentine's Day. We both felt fine and caught a small tuna.
Porpoises played around us in the calm sea. They leapt and
spun around before diving, whizzing beneath our bow and
then bursting forth to leap and spin again. Some energetic
ones leapt and slapped down with a huge splash. I sat on the
bowsprit with my feet dangling in the water and sang while I
videoed them, but of
course, they never leapt
when the camera was
going. The wind was light
and we couldn't make a
hundred miles a day, even
motor-sailing. A current
from the north appeared to
be setting us back. I made
more bread and we had it
warm with the last of our
Sri Lankan cheddar cheese
for lunch.
Under protest, Peter
flew our spinnaker. When
buying it we thought it

would remind us of England's green meadows, and the
buttercups and dandelions which flourish in the grass. It did.
This would be the last ocean voyage of our circumnavigation,
and I was determined to enjoy every moment we could.
Dolphins in the night, exchanging glances! Tubes of light
and a line of iridescent bubbles of phosphorescence outlined
their dorsal fins as they broke the surface. Leaping and
splashing down into a cloud of green and silver stars.
Four hundred miles from the nearest land (the Laccadive
Islands) we saw two shearwaters, one tropic bird and two
flocks of terns as we motored on over a glassy sea.
Peter got around to doing a little job which has been on
the list for thirteen years. On starboard tack the toilet seat lid
has been a constant annoyance - always slapping me in the
back and threatening the possibility of doing untold damage
to Peter. He carved and fitted a wooden catch to hold it up:
perfect!
Well over halfway, 750 miles behind us. Another night of
amazing phosphorescence especially a 50 metre wide band of
shimmering light running north to south. It was a dark night
with no moon, but so eerie, with bright lights glowing from
our bow wave, the curling wave crests, and our tumbling
wake.
On day 11, we saw a very large school of porpoise. They
stretched as far as the eye could see on either side of us. We
caught more small tuna and tried to dry strips of the flesh,
dipped in honey and soy sauce, on the cabin roof. It was
reasonably successful but I didn't really like the taste and
Peter didn't like the stickiness. In the afternoon when still
300 miles from Port Raysut, I counted 19 red crabs swimming
sideways towards the east like lemmings; they had about
1,000 miles to go to land.
The next day a large shark took our lure, but we man- .
aged to unhook him and save our line. In the stiflingly hot
cabin I baked bread and a pineapple crumble. Just before
sunset more crabs were still swimming ea§t, the sea was calm
and a mist was rising. Did these signs portend some special
event? This time I counted 50 crabs in five minutes. At mid-
night there was more fantastic phosphorescence, a blinding
greenish light as our bow bucked into the swell and the bow
wave formed. A brilliant milky way lit the sky.
The engine had been running constantly and at 0200 on
Friday February 23rd we decided to turn it off. It was
necessary to save a little diesel to ensure being able to enter
harbour only 144 miles away. CLYPEUS slid to a standstill.
However at dawn the wind came back with a vengeance, we
reefed down and it was ROUGH. At 1400 the yankee foresail

Blue and
brown
mountains
shimmered
above a sandy
coastal plain.
White, square,
flat-topped
buildings
blazed in the
harsh sun.
—
blew out. We
sailed on, flying
just the main
and staysail
while we both
stitched the
yankee. On the
24th there was
no wind and
with little
diesel, CLYPEUS
just sat.
On the
radio. STAR told us not to bother about hurrying into harbour
as it was the 'end of Ramadan' holiday for four more days.
Nobody was allowed to leave their boats as all customs and
immigration officials were off duty. KULAROO, MARA and
GREEN DOLPHIN were all safely in harbour but unable to go
ashore.
It was frustrating to be only 40 miles away from port.
Strong winds came for a few hours then died. Sails went up
and down like yoyos. At last on February 25th we motor-
sailed between the Arab dhows anchored inside the entrance
to Port Raysut harbour.
The lascars on deck smiled and waved.
Blue and brown mountains shimmered above a sandy
coastal plain. White,
square, flat-topped
buildings blazed in
the harsh sun.
Through the binocu-
lars we could make
out brown camels
cropping a brown
landscape. Little
whirlwinds of dust
rose, swirled and
disappeared.
Cormorants, seagulls
and herons strutted on
the foreshore or stood
on bollards drying
their wings.
We spent seven
hot, dusty, windy
days in oil rich Oman
and enjoyed the cool.
Our first aim
was to buy
telephone
cards.

Linda
Bryce
still, sparkling nights. It was a hot walk to the police post at
the harbour entrance and although strict with paperwork they
seemed incredibly inefficient. Each entrance or departure was
preceded with an examination of every piece of paper in the
office. Some names of crews and boat names were in English
and some were in Arabic, depending on who had taken the
initial information. Some pages were upside down, some
boats had left weeks
ago but all their
papers were still in the
pile.
Our first attempt to
go into town was
frustrating. Peter had
omitted to bring one of
the papers the
Immigration Officer
had given him. No
way could we be
allowed into town
without it. Passports
were not enough.
Peter had to walk in
the searing heat back
to the dinghy jetty,
then row out to and
back from CLYPEUS,
The fine
new buildings
in Salalah
were impres-
sive and
elegant.
The few ladies
that could be
seen in the
streets were all
in full purdah.

then the long walk back to the Entrance Gate. He
was furious. As he passed the sentry, probably
looking like thunder, the sentry beckoned him
over.
"What's the matter? he asked.
Peter explained.
"Calmly, calmly," the wizened sentry
soothed. "Allah be praised. Just sit and wait. All
will be well." Peter sat, he was too hot, fed up
and flustered, to do anything else although he
didn't know what he was waiting for.
Soon a lorry delivering boxes to the port
stopped at the sentry box. A few words were
exchanged with the sentry who then helped Peter
up into the cab and the smiling driver agreed to drop him off
where the dinghies were tied. It was only an hour before he
arrived back at the office with the necessary papers and, with
Lorraine and Brian, we walked towards town. Our first aim
was to buy telephone cards to phone our families from the
Lego-like castellated white telephone boxes. We got through
to England, America and Australia easily and
were delighted to learn that all was well.
During the week we were given lifts into
Salalah by many local men - no ladies drove. As
over 80% of the population own cars, there is no
public transport. The fine new buildings in
Salalah were impressive and elegant. On the
quay was a sailing lugger, its planks sewn
together. We bombarded the local photographic
shop with film to be processed. The few ladies
that could be seen in the streets were all in full
purdah, enveloped in flowing black robes from
head to toe. We noticed some slim ankles and
elegant high heeled shoes. In the market large
African ladies were in colourful robes with cloths
over their heads, two gold rings through their nostrils, and
gold earings. Muslim ladies serving in the stores had henna
patterns on their hands.
Omani men are splendid and dashing in their flowing
mauve robes. They wear little flat pill box hats, some
patterned with pretty white and mauve designs to match their
robes, which are charming. Rifles were slung nonchalantly
across shoulders, and there were market stalls where gun
belts and bandoliers with cartridge cases and bullet holders
could be bought.
In the vegetable shop it seemed extraordinary for an
elegantly robed businessman to spend minutes choosing each
Rifles were
slung noncha-
lantly across
shoulders.
In the
vegetable shop
it seemed
extraordinary
for an elegant-
ly robed
businessman
to spend
minutes
choosing
each potato,

potato, onion or aubergine. What a [A
waste of time for men, but wives
were not allowed out of the home,
even to go shopping.
One of the men who gave us a
lift was Karam, a 28 year old, tall, | >
dark and handsome Omani in a
flowing robe of black simulated
leather. Cool! I don't think it was
really, he must have been very hot.
He offered to take us to Mughsuyl to
the beach to see the blow holes next
day.
We met at the appointed time
and drove west. On the road camels
wandered hither and thither looking
for something to eat. One or two cars sped the other way
along the good beachside road.
Karam drove through the desolate landscape. On the
beach a crowd of barefooted fishermen pulled in their net.
Seagulls wheeled and screeched above them. At the cliff side
we enjoyed the thump and whoosh as the water exploded up
through the blowholes. Karam taught us thank you - shukran,
good morning - saba alkhar, good evening - masa alkhar.
Next day he offered to take us to get our propane bottles
refilled in a desolate industrial area. It took a long time
because Peter wanted a different fitting put on our bottle, but
the old one proved extremely difficult to
get off. The Propane gas plant manager
and three of his men spent an hour try-
ing to change it. Eventually they suc-
ceeded and after refilling it with gas,
charged only $1.50 for everything!
In the meantime I wandered out of
the car and watched some mother camels
with their babies in a large fenced enclo-
sure. After a while Karam joined me.
"I wish to say something. You may
be very cross. Please promise not to tell
your husband."
I was completely in the dark. "OK" I
said, "go on," to this poor nervous young
man.
"Could you be my special friend?
You know, special person to me. Would
your husband permit it?"
"No. He wouldn't," I laughed.
One of the
men who gave
us a lift was
Karam, a 28
year old, tall,
dark and hand-
some.
Peter bought
some good
bargains -
a 10 kilo sack
of perfect
onions for $3.

Karen of
KULAROO
organised
a surprise
celebration
for Bill's 50th
birthday.
absolutely amazed. "In our country we are just one wife for
one man. Besides, I am old enough to be your mother. Why
haven't you a girl friend? You are handsome and clever."
He bowed his head. "I am sorry, you do not mind me
asking?"
"No I don't mind you asking. It seems so ridiculous that
actually I am flattered. But even if I were younger, I love my
husband and have no wish to make love with any other man.
Tell me why you have to ask such an old lady for love."
He sighed. "I have been married and have a son one year
old. It was an arranged marriage. My wife and I did not get
on. Soon we will be divorced, but I cannot speak to, or
approach, a woman of my own age and religion. It is not
allowed. The only way to talk to a girl is to approach her
father and ask to marry her. There is no in between."
We strolled back to the car. "You will not tell your
husband. He may be very angry."
"No. There is no problem."
Deep in thought Lorraine and I sat in the back of the car
as we drove into town. "Did he ask you too?" she whispered.
I nodded. "Poor things! No wonder Arabs and Muslims
are so often fanatical, their customs don't seem to allow any
contact or relaxation with the opposite sex. To not allow men
and women to even talk to each other seems unnatural."
While Karam and the men talked cars, we talked of the
Maldives and of Malaysia where their relatively strict Muslim
code seemed so much more sensible than this.
The new market was excellent. While Lorraine and I did
grocery shopping, Peter bought some good bargains - a 10
kilo sack of perfect onions for $3. Five kilos of dates for about
the same. I bought souvenir gifts of frankincense and myrrh
together with charcoal tablets and little dishes on which to
burn it, as well as
Arafat type Arab
head gear. The
supermarkets were
well stocked and
clean. The little
restaurant where
we chose to have
lunch had a small
area sealed off for
ladies. There were
also some family
rooms, where we
all sat.

In the taxi on the way home we pointed'out to the driver
some beautiful large homes with tiled facades, arched terraces
and tall windows. We asked why so many were so big?
"If you have four wives and twenty children, you need a
large home," he replied.
"How many wives do you have?" basked.
He chuckled. "I am a poor man, I only have one wife, but
I think I would only have one wife if I were a rich man.
Many problems with many wives," he said sagely as he shook
his head. He went on, "New houses still have a woman's
room."
"What is that?" I asked, visualising a sewing room or
even a harem.
"If a wife displeases her husband he has the right to lock
her in the woman's room and she stays there alone until he
gives permission for her to be released. It could be an hour, a
week, or the rest of her life. It is up to the other wives to feed,
look after her and plead her case. It is wise to be a good
wife."
He also told us about popular Sultan Qaboose, the present
ruler of Oman. He had deposed his old-fashioned father who
was now enjoying retirement in the country with his many
wives. Sultan Qaboose was using the country's vast oil
income wisely. His people felt they were all getting their fair
share and the roads, schools, hospitals, housing and sanitation
were improving daily. Of course there was still a long way to
go in this large barren land.
Karen of KULAROO organised a surprise celebration for
Bill's 50th birthday. Five couples dinghied over to MARA,
which was bedecked with balloons, and we all enjoyed a
relaxed and happy evening.
One of the things in Oman I really appreciated was the
excellent telephone service. Once you had purchased a phone
card the calls were cheap and clear. We splashed out and
phoned our families on arrival and before departure. Great!

CHAPTER FOUR
A1 Mukalla
On Sunday March 3rd loaded with frankincense and
myrrh, spices, dates, sacks of onions and potatoes,
and jars of little beetroots and cucumbers I had
pickled, we sailed west in a fresh southerly breeze in the
sunshine towards Yemen. With the binoculars we examined
the interesting coastline of cliffs and beaches. The brown
mountains were shrouded in mist which gradually revealed
yellow desert sand sloping down smoothly, like a glacier, to
the blue sea. Glittering flying fish flitted fast across the water.
As night fell, domestic lights twinkled up in the mountains
bright and high enough to be mistaken for stars. A perfect
night for sleeping on deck.
Next morning, we were about ten miles offshore when a
small fishing boat approached. The two lean men in raggedy
clothes and rough turbans indicated that they were hungry.
We gave them water, biscuits and cigarettes. They offered us
fish in return, but I had already spent the morning dealing
with the two small tuna we had caught and didn't want any
more fish. This time I had bled the tuna then put them in
boiling water for one minute, then filleted them. They were
much more appetising - like tinned tuna.
On the third morning we watched the full moon sinking
as the sun was rising. I sketched, then painted, two flying
fish, Coetus Voluntaris, which had landed on deck. A pleasant
hour was spent composing a rhyme to go with them in GREEN
DOLPHIN'S visitors' book:
"Flying fish GREEN DOEPHIN chased
To the Arabian Coast in undue haste.
"We're slow and heavy," Don had called
But iron sail, it never stalled.
Fresh and rested, but full of cheer
Einda would ask "Are you near?"
How good it was to know she cared

And made us feel a voyage shared.
Although their sails we never saw
Once they had left a foreign shore."
When I looked
into the clear
aquamarine
water, vora-
cious brown
leather-jacket
fish were
attacking the
bread like one
imagines
piranha fish
feed on fresh
meat.
Visitors' books on blue water yachts are often works of art
and lovely reminders of friends and times spent together.
In the light wind, the cruising chute was hauled up and
down a few times. The engine was turned on and off a few
times too. At mid-day I wanted the cruising chute up, Peter
didn't. He eventually hauled it up for me "for the last time"
and I enjoyed standing at the steering wheel, playing it. For
six hours we were doing over six knots in the calm sea. The
breeze filled CLYPEUS'S billowing green and gold foresail and
she picked up her skirts and danced for me, like a staid
crinolined matron after too much sherry. It reminded me of
Joyce Grenfell's 'Stately as a Galleeeon'.
There was no wind the next day, and when MARA caught
us up we took photographs of each other almost sailing. They
motor sailed ahead and got into A1 Mukalla before dark. We
decided to sail, and at 5pm still had 15 miles to go so we just
gilled around offshore all night, not wanting to enter a strange
harbour in the dark. Actually we could easily have gone in
with the full moon but "discretion is the better and all that."
At 4am we started our sail towards this ancient city of tall
white buildings wedged on a narrow strip of level ground
between steep brown mountains and the sea. Menacing great
boulders looked ready to roll and crush the houses and
minarets below. Four small forts dominated the cliff top
above the town. The three other yachts in our little fleet had
organised for Alexander, the local taxi driver and 'fix-it' man,
to take them (and us) to buy diesel at 6 cents US a litre. While
we waited for his taxi to appear on the quay Peter prepared
our diesel canisters and I put our washing to soak.
Anticipating
fresh bread as
soon as we got
ashore, I threw
some stale
slices of bread
over the side
and was
suprised to
hear splash-
ing. When I
looked into
the clear

aquamarine water, voracious brown leathfer-jacket fish were
attacking the bread like one imagines piranha fish feed on
fresh meat. They fought so hard the bread was moving
around in circles in the middle of thrashing brown bodies.
I had been looking forward to swimming, but now?
Ashore we booked into Customs andlmmigration who
issued passes to allow us past the soldier with a rifle guarding
the dock gate. While the men went off to get diesel, Linda
and Karen, and Lorraine and I, in couples wandered the
streets. This was different, really different.
The land was so dry; not a tree or a flower could be seen.
The tall sun-bleached, flat-roof houses with blue shuttered
windows, clung to individual terraces, and were dominated
by the domes of tall mosques and the towering brown moun-
tain that intruded right down to the water front. Narrow
alleys, which only humans, donkeys and goats could climb,
wound up between the houses, rocks and menacing boulders.
Ladies in flowing full black purdah, even with veils over
their eyes, walked freely around. Most of the men in turbans,
shirts and sarong skirts, had evil looking curved daggers
stuck into their belts. On their dusty feet they wore sandals or
thongs. There were many small, hooked-nosed Bedouin
types and many African looking people - but no Chinese.
Many men had round lumps above their jawbone, their
brown cheeks bulged. Was it a physical characteristic of the
race or did they have gumboils?
Apart from a few cars, this was a city from a bygone age
of donkeys and carts. You could see men smoking gurgling
hubble-bubbles in the cafes and abject poverty was every-
where. Bare footed children played between white sunbaked
crumbling terraces and boulders. The girls under twelve wore
flouncy, shiny, bridesmaid type dresses. The school girls wore
black robes with white head veils and some had uncovered
faces. Goats wandered between the blue-shuttered houses
perched on the hillside. They nibbled at everything, even
plastic bags. Have the Yemenis invented a new way of
disposing of plastic garbage?
We bought a yashmak each - two-layered, black modern
ones, with velcro fastening at the back of the head. I tried to
wear mine on board but it made my face and neck so hot. I
couldn't imagine wearing one every time I went out. There
was a great choice of kohl eye makeup and ornate silver tiny
flagons in which to keep it. The shop-keepers were very
friendly.
Rice, pita bread, good vegetables, goat and chicken meat,
dates and spices, were readily available.
A shy young man approached and introduced himself as

Linda
Bryce
He furtively
looked around
and said it
wasn't safe to
talk.
an English student. Did we have
time to talk to him? Lorraine and
I sat at a little cafe table and had
Coca-colas. Mohammet told us he
was training to be a teacher in the
English Department of the Mukalla
Teacher Training College. He had
finished school at 18, done a year's
Military Service and was now on a
four year course. Newly qualified
teachers and doctors only earned
around $100 US a month. As soon as
they qualify, he and his colleagues
would try and get jobs in Saudi
Arabia or Oman.
He wouldn't talk about unifica-
tion with North Yemen. He furtively
looked around and said it wasn't
safe to talk. The young men seem so
lonely. Another student joined us. They were interested in
many things but mainly about how boy meets girl in the west.
There is no way they can even talk to a girl unless they marry
her. No contact whatever is allowed as in Oman.
Many male couples walked along the streets hand in
hand. Husbands have the right to beat their wife to death if
she opposes or annoys him! Divorce consists of the man
saying to his wife "Go away".
We asked with concern about the bulge in the mens'
cheeks. They rocked with laughter. "No problem, they are
chewing "Qat" (catha edulis) a narcotic leaf. With no alcohol
the men must have something to comfort themselves."
We met an English/Lebanese artist, travelling on her own,
who had just spent two weeks living in a Yemeni home. She
said the women didn't read, write, embroider or knit. They
chatted, painted henna designs on their hands and feet, ate,
slept and got fat. She thought they did their housework in a
most impractical and time-consuming way, and spent hours
cooking. They made such a mess as they cooked and ate, they
had to clear up the house three times a day. (Like Indians
they use their right hand fingers only for eating.) It sounded
as though the ladies had lost all incentive to try and be
efficient.
Lorraine and I climbed up through the back alleys and
the women talked to us through the bars of their glassless
windows. They were smiley and friendly and we exchanged
our names, ages, and those of our children and grandchildren.

With henna-painted hands they passed us cold fruit drinks
through the bars, which would seem to us like prison bars.
Children called down from upper windows and women hid
behind the curtains if we looked up.
Frequently men approached us trying to sell Maria
Theresa silver coins. They said they were imported from the
Austro-Flungarian Empire around the 1700s. We didn't know
how authentic they were and have no particular interest in
old coins, so disappointed them. Peter had hoped that we
could buy some cans of beer, but no alcohol was sold to any-
body, anywhere. However, we were able to buy 'Fosters
Australian non-alcoholic beer.'
Alexander had organised two cars for our day tour. He
led the way and we were in the rear taxi with Jack the fifteen
year old driver. Only five
minutes out of Mukalla -
bumpety-bumpety-bump, we
had a flat. He rolled a spare tyre
out of the boot, but there were
no tools for the repair.
A passing motorist took a
message to Alexander who was
driving somewhere ahead. He
came back with some tools and
helped repair our tyre. It was a
long hour standing in the hot
sun. We were warned not to use
cameras or videos as there were
soldiers posted on the cliff top
to our left, and no, we couldn't
look for sea shells on the beach
because it was mined.
We drove inland through a
landscape of barren hills and
Lorraine and I
climbed up
through the
back alleys and
the women
talked to us
through the
bars of their
glassless
windows.
We were
warned not to
use cameras
or videos as
there were sol-
diers posted
on the cliff top
to our left, and
no, we
couldn't look
for sea shells
on the beach
because it was
mined.
-

Grazing for
cattle.
mountains, stony and sandy plains, a
few straggly dusty date palms and
some biblical looking low thorn
bushes. What a Godforsaken coun-
try Yemen is. How they can have
such faith in Allah when he has
given them such a rotten deal. How
lucky we are to have been born in
green and fertile countries. Between
the few lonely small towns young
barefooted girls with wild hair
herded goats along the desolate roadside. Unfortunately the
women and girls don't want to be photographed, but the men
do.
Hard-eyed,
hooked-nosed
Bedouins sat
eating and
drinking.
The former
Sultan's
elegant
small palace.
For lunch our
guide led us into a
concrete garage with
a roller shutter door
near the old town of
Shehar. Hard-eyed,
hooked-nosed
Bedouins sat eating
and drinking, their
ornate curved dag-
gers glinting from
their waists. Our
table was laden with
dishes of goat meat
and mounds of fresh
pita bread. The goat
stew was very tasty
and tender and we
enjoyed the crispy
pita bread washed
down with Canada
Dry cola.
In the afternoon
we visited the
former Sultan's
elegant small
palace, which was
completely gutted
only last year by
the North Yemenis
because a resistance
group had held out
in it. The courtyard
Linda
Bryce

pool was still full of freshish water and families had come
to picnic in the grounds. We managed to talk to them and
photographed them. They were as curious about us as we
were about them.
In the middle of the desert a deep cavern revealed a blue
water-filled grotto. Young men were swimming in the deep
water. Nearby there were a few fields of maize and tobacco
We managed
to talk to
them and
photographed
them.
In the middle
of the desert
a deep cavern
revealed a
blue water-
filled grotto.
Young men
were swim-
ming in the
deep water.

watered through narrow plastic irrigation pipes from the
grotto. The landscape was very dramatic; bare mountains,
cliffs and hills of cream crumbling rock.
We were delivered safe and sound back to the harbour for
a cost of only $20 a couple. Peter went to Alexander's little
shop and told him how much we had enjoyed our day, and
also to buy some gear box fluid. Alexander gave him some
little gifts, incense sticks, a bracelet and a gilt necklace for me.
The next evening we ate out at an open air restaurant
where chickens were spit-roasted in the forecourt. The chick-
ens were so good we bought some for our voyage to Aden
and in the morning followed KULAROO and GREEN DOLPHIN
out of Mukalla.
When we arrived in Aden I wrote to our grown children
Paul, Noel and Andrea and their families telling them not
to worry if they didn't hear from us for a month or so as
communications would be poor travelling up the Red Sea.

^A! K&ivwryih
62191
(Plan A)
62188
(Plan)
62111 (Plan D)
62115
62177
62170
62140
,62111
(Plan B:
Ro's ol Hadoribah
Ros Abu Shajarah
62242
62270
62250
62143 :AI Otmftc#58
Suak in
Archipelago
62111
(Plan A:
Jozair forasoh
Isole Dahioch
-62288 (Plan A)
62285 (Plan)
£SANAA
62292
6211 lS
n
Mm
(Plan B)
A! Midcha
62091
62093
62095
62091

CHAPTER FIVE
Aden 12°47' N Lat 44°59'Long
Aden Harbour shimmered as the heat of the March sun
intensified, scorching the decks of yachts nodding at
their moorings. Every day one or two of the dozen
international cruising yachts, stocked with water, fuel and
fresh food, set their sails and headed out into the Indian
Ocean. Lines of white plastic mooring buoys nodded in
solitary idleness to bob back and forth in the tideway as
yachts hurried north up the Red Sea before northerly winds of
later months blew against them. GREEN DOLPHIN and
KULAROO had left the day before and reported on their daily
radio sked of fair winds and reasonable seas as they sped
west towards the Red Sea.
We had hoped to leave this morning with MARA, but our
grey Avon inflatable dinghy had broken adrift from their stern
the previous evening as we enjoyed a farewell dinner to say
goodbye to new Canadian friends on KAIEN who were head-
ing south to the Seychelles. It had been a happy evening
exchanging their experiences in the Mediterranean and Red
Sea, and our travels from Singapore. At midnight, standing
chatting on the wide stern deck as we prepared to return to
our boats, we realised that our dinghy had gone walkabout.
The men had immediately climbed down into the remain-
ing tenders and zoomed around the harbour searching for the
grey rubber dinghy in a black night. The Marine Police had
confronted them, instructing them to return to their yachts:
"It is our job to find your boat. Not yours. Come to the
office in the morning at nine."
Brian had kindly taken on the job of ferryman and duly
landed Peter ashore. They stood together expectantly in the
Marine Police Office at the correct time, but were studiously
ignored.
Eventually they were told "Come back at ten."
On re-presenting themselves at ten they were told: "Come
back at eleven", then "two", then "five" and still no dinghy.
"Well, if you're sure you will get your dinghy back from
the Aden police today, we'll go on,"' Brian said in his

Australian twang as he rowed away; hisf oars dripping oil and
water as they rose and dipped into the dirty harbour. Like us,
he realised that without a dinghy and unable to get ashore;
we would be completely at the mercy of the Aden authorities.
However, we didn't think we needed to go ashore again. All
our stores were on board and we had obtained our Egyptian
visas ready to visit Cairo and the Pyramids.
"Yes, go on," we both chorused confidently, "we'll be fol-
lowing you in just a couple of hours. Switch your radio to
4417 at 6 o'clock as usual and we'll let you know what
happened."
"Well, if you are sure," he hesitated.
"Yes GO. Now." Peter insisted as, standing on deck, I
curled my hand supportively into his. "Another day wasted is
another you are likely to have to fight northerly head winds."
We watched Brian row back to Lorraine who was
standing on the deck. They exchanged words, waved, and
prepared to set sail.
We went below for a cup of coffee. Peter brought me up
to date on what had happened ashore. "They found our
dinghy and it's in the Naval Dockyard waiting to be collected,
but they say it can't be released immediately because the
Officer in Charge isn't on duty. It was my stupidity," he
confessed. "I only tied it loosely as the painter was covered in
oil. It was filthy," he sighed.
Peter hates getting his fingers sticky; to the extent that he
would rather go without an orange than tackle peeling it.
Hearing the grinding of an anchor chain being raised, we
clambered up on deck to see MARA stow her anchor and sail
out of the harbour towards the Red Sea and Europe.
As they came past we called, "Bye, bon voyage. See you
later today or tomorrow. We'll catch up, don't you worry."
Holding hands and wondering if we'd been over-confident
about the return of our inflatable, we watched until they were
out of sight, longing to be sailing alongside them.
We retired below out of the searing sun and pulled off our
clothes. It was hot, so hot. Perspiration dripped from our
noses and elbows as we resumed our chores. Peter, now in
his early sixties, looked fit as he pulled on his little red and
black Tahitian skirt, and replaced the sweat band around his
high forehead. He sat on the settee re-stitching the jib, as now
after more than 50,000 miles our second set of sails were
beginning to come apart at the seams. It made me smile. This
was my conventional English husband: a collar, tie and socks
man. It had taken three years of sailing in the tropics for him
to actually discard socks when wearing sandals. Now he
resembled a Polynesian pirate, slim and tanned. I loved and

With no
dinghy, we
couldn't get
ashore; but
neither of us
wanted to re-
visit poor dilap-
idated Aden.
In Aden mar-
ket, friendly
traders had
asked our
nationality
With a little
trepidation we
replied
"British".
appreciated him
more than at any
time during our 42
years of marriage.
Now he is not only
my husband, he is
my home. We have
lived in so many
places over the last
few years that he is
the only constant in
my life. Wherever
he is, is home.
I sat in my sarong,
on the starboard
settee behind the
table, turning the wheel of the sewing machine, making an
Eritrean courtesy flag, ready to fly at the crosstrees, when we
booked into Massawa, our next port of entry. The pattern for
the flag had been drawn for us last night by KAIEN as no
reference books yet showed a flag for the three year old nation
of Eritrea.
With no dinghy, we couldn't get ashore; but neither of us
wanted to re-visit poor dilapidated Aden. It was impossible
to get through the dock gates without some semi-official ask-
ing for baksheesh. What had once been a major British port
was now a litter of
semi-derelict concrete
offices and shops rest-
ing on a pile of cinders.
In Aden market,
friendly traders had
asked our nationality.
When, with a little
trepidation we replied
"British", they would
smile and say
"Welcome. Please come
back." One little old
man passing by in the
street, hugged and
kissed me, his bristly
beard scratching my
cheek. "Come back," he
said. "Come back, We
need you British to put
us right again."

What a surprise! At the
start of our voyage thirteen years
ago, we had been a little ashamed,
rather than proud, of our country's
history overseas. But, as we visit
former British Colonies we see
the remains of our democratic
system and infra-structure, which
are helping the local people.
Recently North Yemen had
invaded South Yemen and
bombed and strafed its major
asset - Aden. The strict Muslim
North Yemenis had cracked
down on the smart, as well as the
sleazy, entertainment that had
helped Aden's reputation as an 'interesting' tourist city. The
Russians hadn't managed to keep the port busy and prosper-
ous, now it looked as though a giant had upturned an ashcan
and broken buildings had tumbled down with the black and
dusty cinders. A few rusty Russian merchant ships anchored
in the magnificent harbour gave a melancholy echo of proud
days of the bustling port. The battered face of the clock tower
frowned down at us with the hands forever balanced at four -
forty. Forlorn robed Somali refugees wandered the streets, too
proud to put their hand out for help, but with desperation in
their eyes.
By 10pm the police and dinghy still hadn't appeared.
"We may as well go to bed," Peter suggested. "They will
probably bring the dinghy first thing in the morning."
At 2am we were awakened by someone shouting "Mr.
Peter. Mr. Peter."
Peter crawled out of bed. From the cockpit he saw four
men in a launch. "What do you want?" he shouted.
A cultured voice called in English: "Is this CLYPEUS? Are
you the gentleman who lost his dinghy?"
"Yes, I am," Peter said looking at his watch.
"Good, Please come with us."
"What now?"
"Yes, now."
"OK. Hang on while I get a flashlight and shoes," my
patient, imperturbable husband replied.
I stood in my nightie, hidden by the cabin door, and
handed them up to him.
He climbed into the launch and ... vroom, vroom... they
had sped off into the black night. The throb of the powerful
motors faded into the distance.
The battered
face of the
clock tower
frowned down
at us with the
hands forever
balanced at
twenty past
four.

Suddenly left alone I thought, 'Who are they? Where
have they taken him?' Nobody had given any identification.
He hadn't explained. I could only assume he had recognised
somebody and knew who they were and where they were
going.
I dressed and put the kettle on for cHup of tea and
worried while sewing the finishing touches to the Eritrean
flag. Our circumnavigation across the Atlantic and Pacific to
New Zealand, and Australia through Indonesia to Singapore,
had involved us in many scary situations, but this was
different yet again.
At 3am vroom, vroom, and they were back. As the launch
came alongside, Peter handed up our familiar oars and
climbed aboard. Another man wearing an old shirt, cotton
trousers and dusty sandals climbed up and sat on the cabin
top assuming an authoritative pose. We recognised him as
one of the semi-officials who had tried to make us pay a
landing charge.
Then the grey Avon inflatable dinghy was lifted up on
deck together with our Mercury 2.2 outboard.
"Fifty US. dollars." The man sitting on the cabin top said.
"Fifty dollars? That's a lot of money, I will need a receipt"
Peter replied.
"Thirty dollars then."
"OK, thirty dollars for the time and effort you have made.
Hang on."
Peter went below and found the bills which he handed
over.
The man climbed down into the launch.
"What about a receipt?" was lost in the roar of the engines
as the smiling Yemenis raced away with their baksheesh.
"Ah well, cheap at the price!" Peter sighed as we went
back to bed.
At first light on Saturday morning we up-anchored and
motored out of the harbour calling Harbour Control on the
VHF radio and thanking them for their courtesy.
"Creep!" I whispered with a grin at Peter as he held the
microphone. "Imagine thanking them for all that hassle and a
wasted day."
"It doesn't hurt to be polite," he admonished and then
said, "I can be as two-faced as they are. Fet's go, go, go."
We hoisted all sail to catch MARA, and hopefully the other
friends in our small fleet with whom we were keeping in
radio contact each day at 8am and 6pm on the 4417 kHz SSB
marine frequency.
In hot sunshine over a sparkling sea, the Yemen desert
landscape to our north rushed by, as we enjoyed sailing free

in the south easterly breeze. The twang of the fishing line,
as it pulled the bungy cord tight, brought us both into the
cockpit. Carefully Peter rolled in the line.
"Whatever it is, it's big and strong. You hold it while I
put the gloves on."
We keep a pair of industrial work gloves in the cockpit to
protect our fingers from the straining line, and the teeth of
large fish we haul up. During thirty years of cruising we have
both had deep cuts from fishing line pulling through our
hands.
"Let's hope it's a mahi mahi. I'd love some good white
fish." I said as I handed the jerking reel back.
A streak of white, with a triangular dorsal fin, shot off to
port breaking through the waves.
"Oh no! It looks like another shark. We can't eat enough
before the flesh smells too strong. I don't want it."
"Neither do I. Yes, I think it is a shark. A big one." Peter
gasped.
Now we could see it was over a metre long, with a light
grey back and darker fin. As it was hauled up, its white
underneath rasped against the hull. The hook was through
the bottom lip of its ten inch wide lower jaw. It flipped and
struggled and banged against the side of the boat as we sped
on through the water.
"I can't lift it over the lifelines, and I don't want all those
teeth in the cockpit. How can we let it go without losing
another hook and line?"
"I'll get the kitchen scissors and try and cut the hook out".
I fled down into the galley.
Emerging with my kitchen gloves on and the orange-
handled kitchen scissors, I attempted to cut the shark's lip.
"Hold it still, hold it still". The shark rolled and turned
and thrashed to free itself.
"I'll have to have a rest." Peter lowered the line a little so
that the weight was taken by the sea. The shark twisted and
turned and fought.
"OK. Let's have another go." He lifted the white belly
towards me.
It jerked and swung.
"No, that won't work. Get the boat hook quick. It's
killing my arms."
I passed him the boat hook from the cabin top and he
hooked it inside the shark's upper jaw taking the weight off
the fishing line. It stayed still for a moment and I managed to
snip through its lip to free the hook. One shake and it was
free. It flopped back into the water and for a second, laid still.
"Oh! I do hope it's OK." I murmured sympathetically.

CLYPEUS raced
on towards the
hazards of the
Red Sea.
"Yes, there it goes." The school shark recovered and sped
away at top speed.
CLYPEUS raced on towards the hazards of the Red Sea. We
were excited and scared about facing the challenges of dust
storms; burning winds blowing off the desert; and finding
our way into reef strewn anchorages. What would a 'marsa'
look like? We had read about the keyhole breaks in the off-
shore reefs, where, with caution and the sun overhead, it was
possible to shelter from rough seas, but not from the wind.
Would we be able to cross the busy shipping lanes safely as

we tacked through short steep seas kicked up by sudden
squalls and winds from the north? CLYPEUS doesn't go well to
windward, particularly against steep waves which tend to
stop her dead.
Would we be holed up for days, hiding in marsas until the
strong winds dropped and allowed us to continue north?
Would we have days to read and write, sort photographs, and
try to get some order into the thoughts and remembrances of
this year's voyage? We also wanted to swot up on the new
places we would visit, Eritrea, Sudan, Egypt, Suez, and at last
the Med! We were almost home to England.
I was looking forward to adding to my large shell
collection by beach-combing the lonely shores, wading in the
warm water over white sand. This would be our last chance
to swim and snorkel over coral. A final opportunity to enjoy
the different colours of the tropical seas, from deepest cobalt
The Bab El
Mandeb
Straits.

through the spectrum of light blues and aquamarines to
white froth as the ripples stroked the sand. We had been told
to expect some of the clearest, least-disturbed, waters, corals
and sea-life that remained in our ever-more polluted world.
As night fell, we reduced sail as usual by putting a reef
in the mainsail and exchanging the genoa for the high cut
yankee. Strong tail winds and high seas thrust us north-
wards towards the narrow channel into the Red Sea, from
time immemorial a place dreaded by sailors; The Bab El
Mandeb Straits, which in Arabic means The Gate of Tears'.
What would they mean for us?

(PlM A>
ezm
m?7
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62iii
fa's Abu Shojensh
l*fim
, Suokin
‘^Jkthiptlojo
62U 1
ifianCl
6?U5
i Plan Ai
BahJeiA
hMm §228$CP&nA)
,62288
(Piatt 6)
mm
AL mmm
>62100
-62092
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62095
52191
Plan Bf

CHAPTER SIX
Perim Lighthouse 12°36'N 43°26'E
During December, stories had been relayed on the
marine radio of yachts that had been stopped for
some hours by the Yemeni military as they sailed up
the inner passage into the Red Sea between Perim Island and
the Yemen mainland. To avoid any similar hassle we passed
by the inner passage and headed further west towards the
main channel and the busy international shipping lanes.
In rough seas and with a fierce wind blasting up behind
us, the flash of Perim Island lighthouse passed to starboard
and gradually faded astern. Checking behind every few
moments to see when there was a space to cross the shipping
lane, we watched twinkling lights gradually become great
shining tankers and merchant ships as they neared. Sometimes
I found it difficult to decide whether we were in a direct line
with their course, often calling Peter up on deck during his
off watch to advise me which way we should head to avoid
being run down. In high seas, from the pilot house of a tanker.
In rough seas
and with a
fierce wind
blasting up
behind us, the
flash of Perim
Island light-
house passed
to starboard
and gradually
faded astern.

the officer on watch, whose line of sight doesn't allow him to
see less than two miles ahead, cannot see a small yacht. He
often doesn't even know we exist.
Blazing lights illumined high decks loaded with multi-
tudes of steel containers, or an extravagant mass of pipework
on the leviathan tankers. The throb of mighty engines rose
above the sound of the wind moaning in our rigging. Huge
propellers churned the sea, leaving a high wake fanning out
behind them. We would turn our bows to meet the wakes
head-on. As the natural waves smashed into the offending
wakes and combined to form an uneven mountain of water
CLYPEUS would buck, dip and twist and quiver under the
weight of water that invariably crashed over our foredeck.
Eventually there was a suitable gap between the lights of
merchant vessels heading up the northbound shipping lane.
The chart
showed a
sheltered
anchorage
behind a
headland.

so we heaved in the sails, turned west oh to a port tack and
skimmed across the channel parallel with the waves. Within
the separation zone, with the sails eased, we sailed north until
there was another longish gap between the oncoming lights of
south bound vessels and hurried across. We wanted to get to
the western shore as quickly as we could and actively avoided
going anywhere near the Hanish Islands which we knew were
in dispute between the Eritreans and the Yemenis. We had
heard only positive reports from the yachts ahead about
conditions on the Eritrean coast.
Our normal watch routine of three hours on, three hours
off, didn't work well that night as weaving between the ships
needed two pairs of eyes and hands. When daylight came we
took turns to try and sleep, but with continuing hot strong
winds and seas towering up and curling, sometimes crashing
almost on our stern, we didn't get much rest. However, the
rough weather seemed a small price to pay for the joy of
travelling north with the wind behind us.
The sun sank in a pink and purple glow behind a ridge of
black craggy mountains. The foreshore looked dark and
menacing. We sat in the cockpit appreciating a desert sunset
and looking for signs of any change in the weather. Did that
purple sky portend a dust storm which would sand blast the
paint from the hull?
A million bright stars twinkled and shone overhead but
the relentless hot wind continued to drive us north. Our
Phillips G.P.S. allowed us to track our course accurately and
keep safely between the shipping lanes and the coral reef-
strewn Eritrean coast.
On the 8am radio schedule MARA reported they would
make Marsa Dudo that night, anchor, and wait for us. We
raced along under the hot sun at six knots but realised as we
studied the chart at 3pm, that with 23 miles still to go, we
wouldn't make Marsa Dudo before the light was too poor to
con our way through the coral to their anchorage. In this
region darkness falls about 6pm and as the sun gets lower it
reflects off the water and the coral becomes invisible. The
British Admiralty chart showed a sheltered anchorage behind
a headland, about five miles to the west, on the Eritrean
mainland. We made for it and put the anchor down in twelve
feet of clear water into hard sand, sat back, and caught our
breath.
The sandy peninsula had a peak of grey rock at the tip
that deflected much of the wind. Hills of white sand with
scrub, and others of black volcanic boulders stretched away to
the south. What looked like remains of little black stone
houses with no roofs were dotted around. (We later realised

The sandy
peninsula had
a peak of grey
rock at the tip
that deflected
much of the
wind.
they could have been gun emplacements.) The crescent of the
calm aquamarine bay was wondrously quiet. Eagles soared
overhead and shearwaters swooped out beyond the headland
over the grey and white rolling hills of water.
Peace at last!
An hour later, at 5pm a grey open launch approached,
powered by two large outboard motors at the stern and a
large machine gun, covered in sacking, mounted amidships.
Men in assorted clothing, carrying automatic rifles sat uneasily
on either side. The boat nudged up astern. We stood in the
cockpit apprehensively.
On the bow, a tall mature man dressed in traditional
African robes called to us,
"Good afternoon. No worries. No problem. We just wish
to see your passports and papers. I am not army. I am
interpreter."
"OK." Peter said. "Welcome aboard. I'll go and get them."
Two unsmiling young black men in cotton camouflage
trousers and shirts, carrying rifles, clambered aboard. The
interpreter followed.
"Please come down into the cabin. Would you like tea?
Some dates?" I offered as we usually do to officials.
One soldier stayed in the cockpit, his rifle at the ready.
Seated at the cabin table the interpreter took a date and
popped it into his mouth, with thanks. The soldier unsmilingly
refused and was obviously suspicious and nervous.
So were we; the atmosphere was charged with distrust.
Peter presented our passports and the ship's papers.
They scrutinised them carefully, looked around the boat,
examined the forward cabins, then left.
"No problems really. A normal efficient, coast guard type
inspection of a foreign boat," we reported to our friends on
the radio.

Billing S. Red Sea Peril, 2002.pdf

Billing S. Red Sea Peril, 2002.pdf

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